Apartheid en Cuba
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    Country of Old Men / Foreign Policy Magazine / Yoani Sánchez

    Country of Old Men / Foreign Policy Magazine / Yoani Sánchez
    Translator: Unstated, Yoani Sánchez

    This article will appear in the November print edition of Foreign Policy
    Magazine, and is available on their website now.


    At the end of his July 31, 2006, broadcast, the visibly nervous anchor
    on Cuban Television News announced that there would be a proclamation
    from . This was hardly uncommon, and many Cubans no doubt
    turned off their TVs in anticipation of yet another diatribe from the
    comandante en jefe accusing the United States of committing some fresh
    evil against the island. But those of us who stayed tuned that evening
    saw, instead, a red-faced Carlos Valenciaga, Fidel's personal secretary,
    appear before the cameras and read, voice trembling, from a document as
    remarkable as it was brief. In a few short sentences, the invincible
    guerrilla of old confessed that he was very ill and doled out government
    responsibilities to his nearest associates. Most notably, his brother
    Raúl was charged with assuming Fidel's duties as first secretary of the
    Communist Party's Central Committee, commander in chief of the
    Revolutionary Armed Forces, and of the Council of State. The
    dynastic succession had begun.

    It was a miracle that the old telephone exchanges, with their
    1930s-vintage equipment, didn't collapse that night as callers rushed to
    share the news, in a code that was secret to no one: "He kicked the
    bucket." "El Caballo" — the Horse — "is gone." "The One is terminal." I
    picked up the receiver and called my mother, who was born in 1957, on
    the eve of Castro's revolution; neither of us had known any other
    president. "He's not here anymore, Mom," I said, almost whispering.
    "He's not here anymore." On the other end of the line she began to cry.

    It was the little things that changed at first. Rum sales increased. The
    streets of central Havana were oddly empty. In the absence of the
    prolific orator who was fond of cutting into TV shows to address his
    public, homemakers were surprised to see their Brazilian soap operas air
    at their scheduled times. Public events began to dwindle, among them the
    so-called "anti-imperialism" rallies held regularly throughout the
    country to rail against the northern enemy. But the fundamental change
    happened within people, within the three generations of Cubans who had
    known only a single prime minister, a single first secretary of the
    Communist Party, a single commander in chief. With the sudden prospect
    of abandonment by the papá estado — "daddy state" — that Fidel had
    built, Cubans faced a kind of orphanhood, though one that brought more
    hope than pain.

    Five years later, we have entered a new phase in our relationship with
    our government, one that is less personal but still deeply worshipful of
    a man some people now call the "patient in chief." Fidel lives on, and
    Raúl — whose power, as everyone knows, comes from his genes rather than
    his political gifts — has ruled since his ultimate accession in February
    2008 without even the formality of the ballot box, prompting a dark joke
    often told in the streets of Havana: This is not a bloody dictatorship,
    but a dictatorship by blood. Pepito, the mischievous boy who stars in
    our popular jokes, calls Raúl "Castro Version 1.5? because he is no
    longer No. 2, but still isn't allowed to be the One. When the comandante
    — now barely a shadow of his former self — appeared at the final session
    of the Communist Party's sixth congress this April, he grabbed his
    brother's arm and raised it, to a standing ovation. The gesture was
    intended to consecrate the transfer of power, but to many of us the two
    old men seemed to be joining hands in search of mutual support, not in
    celebration of victory.

    Raúl's much-discussed reforms followed the supposed handover of power,
    but in reality, they have been less steps forward than attempts to
    redress the legal absurdities of the past. One of these was the lifting
    of the apartheid that prevented Cubans from enjoying their own
    country's facilities. For years, to connect to the Internet, I had
    to disguise myself as a foreigner and mumble a few brief sentences in
    English or German to buy a web-access card in the lobby of some hotel.
    The sale of computers was finally authorized in March 2008, though by
    that time many younger Cubans had assembled their own computers with
    pieces bought on the black market. The prohibition on Cubans having
    cell-phone contracts was also repealed, ending the sad spectacle of
    people begging foreigners to help them establish accounts for prepaid
    phones. Restrictions on agriculture were loosened, allowing farmers to
    lease government land on 10-year terms. The liberalization brought to
    light the sad fact that the state had allowed much of the country's land
    (70 percent of it was in state hands) to become overgrown with invasive

    While officially still socialist, the government has also pushed for an
    expansion of so-called self-employment, masked with the euphemism of
    "nonstate forms of production." It is, in reality, a private sector
    emerging in fits and starts. In less than a year, the number of
    self-employed grew from 148,000 to 330,000, and there is now a flowering
    of textile production, food kiosks, and the sale of CDs and DVDs. But
    heavy taxes, the lack of a wholesale market, and the inability to import
    raw materials independent of the state act as a brake on the
    inventiveness of these entrepreneurs, as does memory: The late 1990s,
    when the return to centralization and nationalization swept away the
    private endeavors that had surged in the Cuban after the fall of
    the Berlin Wall, were not so long ago.

    So for now, the effects of the highly publicized reforms are barely
    noticeable on our plates or in our pockets. The country continues to
    import 80 percent of what we consume, at a cost of more than $1.5
    billion. In the hard-currency stores, the cans of corn say "Made in the
    USA"; the sugar provided through the ration book travels from Brazil;
    and in the Varadero tourist hotels, a good part of the fruit comes from
    the Dominican Republic, while the flowers and coffee from
    Colombia. In 2010, 38,165 Cubans left the island for good. My impatient
    friends declare they are not going to stay "to turn off the light in El
    Morro" — the lighthouse at the entrance to Havana Bay — "after everyone
    else leaves."

    The new president understands all too well that transformations that are
    too deep could cause him to lose control. Cubans jokingly compare their
    political system to one of the dilapidated houses in Old Havana: The
    hurricanes don't bring it down and the rains don't bring it down, but
    one day someone tries to change the lock on the front door and the whole
    edifice collapses. And so the government's most practiced ploy is the
    purchase of time with proclamations of supposed reforms that, once
    implemented, fail to achieve the promised effects.

    But this can only continue for so long. Before the end of December, Raúl
    Castro will have to fulfill his promise to legalize home sales, which
    have been since 1959, a move that will inevitably result in the
    redistribution of people in cities according to their purchasing power.
    One of the most enduring bastions of revolutionary imagery —
    working-class Cubans living in the palatial homes of the bygone elite —
    could collapse with the establishment of such marked economic
    differences between neighborhoods.

    And yet the old Cuba persists in subtle, sinister forms. Raúl works more
    quietly than Fidel, and from the shadows. He has increased the number of
    political and equipped them with advanced technology to monitor
    the lives of his critics, myself among them. I learned long ago that the
    best way to fool the "security" is to make public everything I think, to
    hide nothing, and in so doing perhaps I can reduce the national
    resources spent on undercover agents, the pricey gas for the cars in
    which they move, and the long shifts searching the Internet for our
    divergent opinions. Still, we hear of brief detentions that include
    heavy doses of physical and verbal while leaving no legal
    trail. Cuba's major cities are now filled with surveillance cameras that
    capture both those who smuggle cigars and those of us who carry only our
    rebellious thoughts.

    But over the last five years the government has undeniably and
    irreversibly lost control of the dissemination of information. Hidden in
    water tanks and behind sheets hanging on clotheslines, illegal satellite
    dishes bring people the news that is banned or censored in the national
    media. The emergence of bloggers who are critical of the system, the
    maturation of independent journalism, and the rise of autonomous spaces
    for the arts have all eroded the state's monopoly on power.

    Fidel, meanwhile, has faded away. He appears rarely and only in photos,
    always dressed in the tracksuit of an aging mafioso, and we begin to
    forget the fatigues-clad fighting man who intruded on nearly every
    minute of our existence for half a century. Just a year ago, my
    8-year-old niece was watching television and, seeing the desiccated face
    of the old commander in chief, shouted to her father, "Daddy, who is
    this gentleman?"

    Yoani Sánchez is the Havana-based author of the Generation Y and
    the recently published book Havana Real. This article was translated by
    Mary Jo Porter.


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